Jan. 5: The Possibility of Partial Nudity

I walked into my first class – Intro to World Geography - at 9:55 a.m. Wednesday to the strains of flute and drum music.

When the 100 or so students had wedged themselves into to the tiny seats that looked as though they were designed for first-graders, our instructor – Joan Mylroie – explained that she liked to play music native to some of the far-flung places she had visited over the years.

I figured as much. Obscure, third-world countries may differ in many ways, but in this one respect, there is uniformity: They only have drums and flutes of some sort.

If I accidentally start the next Face Book or Apple, I intend to devote much of my fortune to a charity that will send these people some guitars or trombones or pianos. You can only stand so much flute-and-drum music.

It was obvious to me that our professor has a real passion for her subject, which is a good thing, I figure.

In addition to her affinity for the mind-numbing variations on drum/flute tunes, Mrs. Mylroie also loves the traditional clothes worn by the indigenous natives of the places she visits.

Pointing to her skirt, an ankle-length cream-colored garment with flowered embroidery at the bottom, she said she also liked to wear clothes of the indigenous peoples of the places she had visited.

That is why I half expect to see Mrs. Mylroie topless when we all gather again for class on Friday.

Now, I’m not one to jump to conclusions, nor am I particularly inclined toward putting words in people’s mouths.

But I can draw reasonable inferences.

No sooner had Mrs. Mylroie explained how she just loved to wear the clothes native to the places she visited, she shared this nugget of information on her most recent trip abroad. It was a small island in Micronesia, she said, with a population of only about 140 people. Because the island is so small and so sparsely populated, the natives get awful tired of looking at each other all the time. So when visitors arrive, the whole island turns out to gawk.

Mrs. Mylroie said they were greeted with great warmth.

She made a specific point to say that the native women all wore colorful skirts. And that was all they wore.

I wonder what it's like to be a woman on that island. I imagine the women gathering at the clothes-washing stream and striking up casual conversations:

"Oh, Agnes! I just love what you're doing with your breasts these days!''

Or, "Oh, girl, I'm just having one of those bad breasts days, you know!''

Maybe even, "I hate, hate, hate this humidity. It just ruins my breasts!''

But back to the topic at hand.

It seems to me that Mrs. Mylroie might be trying to prepare us for something, you know? I mean, in one breath she says she likes to dress like the natives and in the next she says that the last place she visited the women went topless.

Now, I’m not saying that Mrs. Mylroie intends to “go all Micronesian on us’’ come Friday. But I cannot rule out the possibility.
We shall see. Literally.

I attended two other classes on Wednesday and, while neither of the other professors alluded to any potential nudity, they seemed pleasant enough.

My Mass Media Law instructor, Mark Goodman, told me not to sweat it if I was chronically late for class, this after I explained that I had roughly 10 minutes to make the 15-minute walk over from Intro to World Geography to his class.

My last class, History of Western Philosophy II (or The Sequel!, as I like to think of it) began late with our professor, Mr. Holt, walking in about five minutes late.

“I’m never late,’’ he said, when a student chided him politely. “Class starts right on time, right when I get here.’’

Mr. Holt seems like a lively guy. He kept writing Greek and Latin words on the chalkboard and making funny comments about various philosophic topics. I say they were funny; they got laughs from the Philosophy majors in the class. But since this was my first Philosophy class, I’m afraid the jokes were lost on me.

But he seems like an amiable, friendly sort and I have a feeling I’ll make out OK.

I am happy to report that in every class, there was someone who I judged to be pretty much my age. Of course, the someone was the professor. Everybody else looked like they were 15.

I had breakfast, lunch and dinner at the cafeteria, a place where you can get seriously fat if you’re not careful. I was not careful Wednesday. For breakfast, I had eggs, bacon, potatoes, biscuit with country gravy and a blue-berry muffin. For lunch, I had fried chicken, black-eyed peas, green beans, mashed potatoes, two pieces of cornbread and banana pudding for dessert. For dinner, I had a salad, so guilty was my conscience.

I bought an unlimited meal plan under the theory that, given my grim financial existence, I’d be able to eat no matter how small my bank account shrinks.

I have to say that my first day of school felt a little odd, almost as if I were on assignment and would soon return to my regular life, whatever that was.

I think part of the reason was that I was alone all day. Alone on my walks to class, alone at each meal. Being alone in a crowd is a special kind of alone. In those circumstances, you feel very much like an observer, an outsider.

I hope I make some friends before too long. I’m going to give it a shot.

But I do have one new friend. Her name is Joy and she’s a tiny little thing with big brown eyes and a gentle smile. We became friends in Geography Class. The teacher made us.

She told us to turn to the person next to us and get that person’s email address.

“You’re going to be classroom friends,’’ she said. “If you miss a class, your friend will share his or her notes.’’

Joy and I dutifully exchanged email addresses. So Joy is my first new friend, for three hours a week, anyway.

I’ll see her again Friday.

I’ll see Mrs. Mylroie on Friday, too.

Queue the flute and drum music. Hubba, Hubba!